Lover
by Suklaamousse
Summary: Does anyone really know the Dark Lord? They say he is heartless, cruel and evil. They say he knows no love. How wrong they are. Who we are may not be who or what we choose to become. Is there a difference between Tom and the Dark Lord? Betaed. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer** This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Beta : Trilobitian**

**Lover**

**December 1972**

I feel his hot breath tickling my sensitive porcelain skin as his soft warm lips brush against my cheek. His tall, lean body feels like fire against my naked figure. His long, nimble fingers touch my smooth skin lightly as he explores the curve of my neck. He gently nibbles my earlobe, whispering my name and effectively waking me from my slumber. The room is pitch black, it always is, when he comes. We are resting on a luxurious king-sized four poster bed in the middle of a comfortable bedroom. My bedroom. He has come nearly every night and yet I have never seen him.

He greets me between tender kisses while slowly climbing on top of me. He feels heavy as he holds me down against the cool mattress but I love to feel his weight trapping me. His robes are rough against my skin and I can feel icy wetness here and there. It must be snowing tonight. I pull his hood down and tangle my fingers in his silky, slightly wavy hair. I love his hair. I love how it feels, I love how it smells; love how he pushes his head against my hand when I touch him like this. I love how I can make him crave for more. I wonder what colour his hair is. One would think there would be hairs in my bed, I'm sure I must have ripped dozens of them, yet he never leaves any trace of his identity. I don't even know his name.

Sometimes, I think he is only a dream, a figment of my imagination, an illusion. But I know he isn't. Every morning, I see his bite marks on my neck and upper body, feel the tenderness between my legs, and taste him in my mouth. And he writes me a letter every day.

He is always inconsistent in his letters. So unpredictable, in fact, that he could be described as consistent. Consistently inconsistent, as some say. His handwriting is never the same, in fact, each letter is different from another, and he never uses a specific style. It's amazing how precise each character is drawn and yet there is never any information about the writer. The parchment is never the same and sometimes he even uses Muggle paper. The ink is always different too, every so often he uses black, sometimes blue, other times a ballpoint pen and once the letter was written using a Muggle computer. I know he doesn't want me to know his identity so I don't ask.

I met him in Knockturn Alley last summer. He was dressed in black and all I could tell about him was his skin colour and his height. He is at least a good six inches taller than me. He is older than me, at least, he sounds to be anyhow. I was in a bookstore, in line to buy a book when he came up behind me, suggesting I purchase something else. I still think he just wanted the one I was buying; I do not believe he was doing it to be polite or helpful however, his performance was nearly flawless. I don't think he was trying very hard. Somehow, during the discussion, I managed to impress him and he told me he would write me once I'd finished the book. I still don't quite know how he tracked me down, but instead of a letter I got a very late night call... directly to my bedroom. How he always gets through the wards without my father or the other aurors noticing, I don't know. But it's both frightening and astounding at the same time.

His tongue touches my lower lip, asking for entrance. He never does anything against my will, he never hurts me and he always pleases me. Don't get me wrong, he is the dominant one in this relationship, there is no doubt about that, but he enjoys my pleasure. He yearns for my moans, longs for my shivers and craves for my orgasms. He loves to be the one causing it, he has the power to make me feel this, he has the power to bend me to his every whim and make me beg for more. And I do bend and beg, quite willingly in fact. In the end I am the one with the power, because he needs me to trust him, needs me to want him. He slips his tongue in my mouth and I can feel him smiling against my lips.

At some point his robes get tossed to the floor and his pants aren't far behind. I run my fingers over his toned abs, slowly tracing lower and lower. I lick my lips in anticipation and he suckles. I think he can see in the dark. He takes hold of my wrist, kissing my fingers; I can feel his hardness pressing against my right thigh. His right hand closes around my delicate wrists while he leans to kiss me eagerly. He is different tonight, more passionate than usual, and I know we will be at it till early morning.

He kisses every inch of my body memorizing me, tasting me. Somehow, I know this will be our last time and I intend to make it unforgettable. He makes me delirious with need and I orgasm thrice before he pushes inside me with such strength that my screams surely carry through the silencing charms.

I don't know what time it is nor do I care. I'm tired and he isn't much better. His breathing is slow and steady as he rests on me. I know he is awake as I can feel his lashes tickling my cheek. He slowly pulls up to kiss me on my lips.

I feel something warm and moist land on my nose, on my burning cheek, on my red and bruised lips. I lick my lips tasting the liquid, salty. Tears, I realize. He leans down kissing me tenderly, his breath shallow and erratic. I try to wrap my hands around him but I can't move them. He is holding them above my head, gently but firmly. I don't fight him, I kiss him back.

Suddenly, there is a strong hand strangling me. I can't breath. My instincts tell me to fight, so I struggle but he is too strong, too heavy. It hurts so much. The candles, the torches and the fireplace burst into flames, lighting the room, his pale face, and his eyes. His crimson snakelike eyes are locked with mine. His face is filled with pain and raw anguish. So much emotion for someone who is said to be heartless. I can't breath. My vision is getting blurry now, maybe it's because of my tears, or maybe it's for the lack of oxygen. I can hear my heart beating fast, fighting to keep me alive. My blood is pounding in my ears. The sound is deafening. I can't breath.

I try to speak but I can't make a sound. Not with him choking me. Killing me. He looks at my lips and I try again. 'Why?' I know why. But I want to hear it, need to hear it. Just once in my life. Once.

The hand squeezing me tightens and I start to lose my consciousness. My eyes are open but I can't see him anymore. I can't move, I can't breath, I can't see. The pain is finally lessening.

He looks straight into my eyes and murmurs "Because" his voice is barely above a whisper but it's enough "I love you."

My heart is slowing, I don't know if I'm still conscious but I need to tell him. I try to whisper, but I can barely move my lips 'I love you too.'

I'm dying. My lover is killing me and I have seconds to live. The man whom I love is killing me, murdering me and yet for the first time in my life, I'm happy.

I close my eyes and I smile.

oooo0000oooo0000oooo


End file.
